


Billy Walked into a Bar...

by Unovis



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Gen, Walk Into A Bar, bar story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-09
Updated: 2013-11-09
Packaged: 2018-01-01 00:00:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1037934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unovis/pseuds/Unovis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Back of his neck itched, and it wasn't from the soap at the Launder-Match. <br/>Billy meets Methos. Oh, Billy Smith! Not my OC, but one I'm fond of. Re-post from 2006.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Billy Walked into a Bar...

Back of his neck itched, and it wasn't from the soap at the Launder-Match. Place like that, you think they'd stock the good stuff, with the stain removers and the softeners, but no. Cheap cheap sumbitches, everywhere you look. Like Tennis Shorts, yesterday, trying to make time with Pink Panties at the folding table, save himself the price of a night at a bar. Billy saw his red shirt flopping in the dryer, nice and clean and unobserved, and it looked like luck right off.

Not much luck, not yet. Back of his neck, between his shoulder blades. Someone watching, damn if he knew who. Not one of Them, that he could feel. Cop, maybe, bounty hunter? Problem with a name like his, even when he killed himself off, couldn't be sure some hay for brains backwater pig would get the details right, wouldn't still hold a hope or a grudge. Discretion was the safer part of something, said Sylvester Stallone. After the first couple years, he kept his infractions small and neat and sober, and off the road. Fucking traffic cops would hang your ass, moving violations worse'n B&E or rape or murder, in Virginia. Texas, too.

He sucked smoke though his Parliament king and squinted down the street. Hardware, Rite-Aid, Starbucks, bar. McDonalds he'd just left. The Falcon was back a few blocks and across the highway, at the motel. Waterfront this way somewhere said the map, and he was hoping to find it, maybe pick up a job at the docks, but the giveaway from the Welcome Center at the state line wasn't that detailed. MickeyD kid behind the counter was brainless and the mom and brats looked at him like he'd spit in their Happy Meals given half a shot, and fuck, there was that itch again, and double fuck, now there was a buzz, coming up behind as well. Bar, it was.

So, Billy Smith walked into a bar, and the first thing to hit him in the face was another goddamn buzz.

He stood next to the counter, blinking in the dimness, in his good-luck fucking shirt. The place was almost empty--no surprise at this time of the afternoon. Two dumpy broads in a booth; old black fella in a plaid jacket, talking to the bartender; skinny guy in jeans and a sweater, big nose, sitting at his end of the bar. Had to be. Billy frowned at the guy, who was looking back at him kinda thoughtful and quiet. Sissy boy, maybe, maybe another sucker he could play. Billy hooked his thumb in his change pocket and put his foot up on the rail. The guy smiled and shook his head.

"Holy Ground," he said, and went back to his mug of beer.

"The fuck?" said Billy.

"House of Beer. Services daily." He took another sip, keeping his eyes on Billy. "Not looking for a fight," he explained, licking his upper lip.

"Suits me," Billy grunted. Off the hook now, and free to go back out to the gray sidewalk and the hot sun, soon as that other bastard moved out of range. No need to linger in the dark and cool. After that crappy Mac, though, beer looked tasty. Billy had a five and his lucky quarter on him. Maybe, maybe. "Sumbitch outside, maybe has a different idea." He made himself smile at the guy. "Information worth a cold one?"

Well, he'd had friendlier looks, but the guy unbelted a ten and crooked a finger at the bartender. There was Bud on tap, reliably, and while he'd rather have had a bottle of PBR, this would do fine on someone else's tab. Five minutes killed and no one come through the door. He drank. He wished he had the money and the time and the safety to get hammered for the long afternoon, into the night. He drank and he frowned and he drank and he thought about sitting with the old gang in Buffalo, watching the games and eating wings, gone now, gone, and he drank and there was an inch left, swilling above the thick, chipped bottom of the mug. The sight made him sigh. He looked sideways at the guy. "Thanks."

The guy shrugged. "De nada."

"You live around here?" The TV was on some news program, with the sound off. "Know the way to the docks?"

"Passing through, myself. Merchant marine?"

"On and off. Got a ticket." Nearly a killer card; His National Service Card in his wallet, that said it was eleven months since his last job, and him a month away from losing his seniority and being dumped at the end of the line. Still, if he could find a ship headed out, it'd be a few months' pay and a berth, and, hopefully, nobody dangerous on board. "You?"

"No. Water and I don't mix."

"Seasick won't kill you. Just make you wish." He put his hand in his pocket and fingered the quarter, then took it out again. He could spend the five if he was careful tomorrow; $187 and change rolled into his socks, back at the motel. He sloshed the dregs of his beer and drank it down. The guy twitched his mouth and gestured for another round.

"Trying to get me drunk?" asked Billy, flipping him a look. The guy was looking back at him intent again, but not that way that meant an extra twenty for a rub or a suck in the john.

"Can't fly on one wing."

The beer was slid in front of him, sweating cold and golden. "Thanks again," he said politely. "And who's doing me this stabilizing favor?"

"Name's Adam. Adam Smith."

"Billy," said Billy. Jackass. Every falling fruit took his last name for an alias. He pulled over the peanuts bowl and popped a few. He drank, the guy drank, some music came on the jukebox; it was some woman singing, nothing he knew about.

"I might have heard this isn't the place to find a berth," said the guy--Adam. "If you are indeed a man not looking for a fight."

Not so smart then, asking about the docks. "This have anything to do with the sumbitch?"

"Possibly. Probably." Bright eyes, over the rim of the mug. "Discretion is the better part of valor."

"Stallone!"

"You're welcome."

Billy sniggered, in spite of himself. "That's me, Boy. Fulla valor. Don't stick, don't squabble...just head for the open road."

"To the road," said Adam, grinning.

"Road," said Billy. "No fights and a long life."

"Yeah," said Adam. "A man could live a good, long time, being careful like that." He wasn't grinning now, just looking again. Looking at Billy real intent, in a way that sent a shiver up his back.

"Yeah." Billy put down his mug and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Thanks for the beer." He eased off the stool. "S'long. Hope I never see you again."

"Same here," said the stranger. He never dropped his eyes, looked at Billy straight, all the way out the door.

Nobody on the sidewalk. The buzz was gone. Billy cut over a block, backtracked fast to the motel, neck crawling again the whole fucking while. Next town along the coast was sixty miles off. Lucky shirt, his ass.

+++end+++

**Author's Note:**

> Long background story that I'm not posting here. I did not create Billy Smith and I use him without permission. Written in 2006. With love.


End file.
